Abstract (Poetry)

A story lives inside the paint —
a texture grooved to shelve a tale
in grainy words of rust and rock
eroding shapes — their outlines faint
beneath each primal colour’s veil —
pigments bleeding — block by block.

All edges blur — merge wet and run
with strange beginnings — buried deep
in strata layered to conceal
all but the subtle hint of one
dark mystery the shadows keep
near-promising they might reveal.

The chapters curl their contours long
with detail small and deftly placed
for intrigue — taking eye and mind
so gently — luring on and on
to canyons where the senses taste
enchantment — wistful — undefined.

No abstract formula exists —
it’s partly echo — half a dream
that haunts and teases — goads the hand
while inspiration’s blueprint twists
away from tried and tested schemes —
the vision hangs — its art unplanned.

Where old beliefs and legends draw
their figures in the leaping flame
the fantasy of colour gives
significance — and at the core
a ghost survives who has no name
but transient — her spirit lives.